Satisfaction
by gravitysabully
Summary: Klaus Herrmann is not like the other Germans he sees on the street. Not like his mother, who doesn't care if the Jews are dead or alive. Not like his father, who wants all who don't support Hitler killed. Klaus wasn't like them. He wanted to see the Germany he saw before the War. He will try to revive it, one step at a time. [WWII. #TW: Violence]


**Hey guys! This is something I wrote for school and I'm bored. Cause I'm sitting at home on the couch. Sick. The only upside is that I got out of Math with the Wizard (long story that involves doors, stupidity, and Total).**

**-Kato**

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Satisfaction

We all have that one person that we hate with a burning passion. Who we hate so strongly the hate becomes larger than life itself. Do you hate someone like that? I definitely do. For me, that person is Adolf Hitler.

···

I looked at the picture hanging in Frau Hagen's sweet shop. As much as I loved the shop before the war, I now dread coming to get the candy my sisters want. The reason for this change was simple: Hitler's picture.

I hated it. I hated _him_; everything about him. The strange mustache he insisted on wearing. The way his stomach pokes through his shirt. The way his cold eyes seemed to stare right through you, as if you were a ghost. _Everything._ Don't get the wrong idea, I'm not a Jew. If I was, I'd probably hate him even more. I'm German through and through. Although, sometimes, I wish I wasn't.

"Here you go," Frau Hagen said, snapping me out of my staring contest with Hitler's photo. She held out the candy I had ordered and I paid her. I walked out of her shop and headed home with an autumn breeze blowing in my face. I passed smiling children, straight-faced adults, and hollowed-eyed Jews. There was another reason I hate Hitler.

The Jews were broken, like the windows of their homes and shops on _Kristallnacht_. Their eyes were lifeless, but they darted around to make sure no Nazis snuck up behind them. Twenty-four. I saw twenty-four Jews on my walk home. I saw twenty-four people stiffen as I walked by them. Twenty-four people who wore yellow stars that stripped them of their dignity. Eight out of the twenty-four Jews looked about fifteen: the same age as me.

I was glad when I reached my family's small flat on _Julienstrasse_, July Road. No portraits of the _Fuhrer_, leader, or rag-doll Jews.

I opened the door slowly and took a step inside. More like a half-step because I was tackled to the ground before my foot touched the floor.

"Klaus!" Angelika squealed as she sat up on my chest. Her golden curls surrounded her face like a halo. I was positive I had the cutest five-year-old as my sister.

"Hey, Angie," I said, using her pet name.

"Did you bring us candy?" a voice said from behind Angelika. I sat up, moving Angelika to my lap.

"Of course, Jana," I told my eight-year-old sister. Jana's blue eyes, that were identical to Angelika's, lit up at my response. I laughed as she hurried over to me to sit next to Angelika. I pulled out the candy and gave them each two pieces, saving none for myself. They took it gratefully and started sucking on their first pieces. I pulled Angelika off of me and stood up.

"_Mutti?_" I called, looking in the living room for my mother. I walked into the kitchen and called for my mother again. She didn't respond so I ambled down the hallway that lead to our bedrooms. I passed my parents' bedroom and heard muffled voices. Curious, I pressed my ear against the closed door.

"Is it true?" my mother's voice asked.

"Yes," my father replied.

"I don't want that _filth_ marched past my windows," I heard my mother grumble.

My breathing hitched. The "filth" my mother was talking about must be the Jews. She never liked them, and she followed Hitler gladly. She was perfectly fine with the Jews being sent away to concentration camps while I, on the other hand, was disgusted with it.

"I know, but the parades show everyone what the Jews really are," my father said, showing his support for the Nazi party.

I stopped listening to the conversation after that. I was on the verge of a panic attack. There was going to be a Jew parade. Here, in Munich. Lost souls would be marched through my hometown, and I would be forced to watch it all. The broken eyes. The pleading. The heads bowed. The feet dragging. My breathing quickened as I blindly felt my way to my room. I tripped over my own feet as I stumbled towards the bed.

I closed my eyes once I finally reached the bed and laid down on it. Instead of total blackness, I saw the abused Jews. My eyes flew open so I wouldn't have to look at them- imaginary or not- in the eye. My breathing returned to its normal rate after staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. Even though it was still light out, I was struggling to keep my eyes open and failing miserably. I soon gave up and closed my eyes. And this time, I saw no Jews.

···

"Klaus!" is what woke me up the next morning. I groaned and shifted on the bed.

"Klaus!" my mother shrilled again. I groaned and pushed myself into a sitting position. I opened my eyes blearily and saw that I was still wearing my clothes from yesterday.

"Klaus! Get up and get dressed!"

"I'm up!" I snapped. I stood up on my shaky legs and got dressed. I flew down the hallway into the kitchen. Jana and Angelika were already putting their dishes in the puny sink. My father's blue eyes were trained on the Sunday newspaper. My mother, who was the first to notice that I joined them, was eating watery soup that was probably left over from last night.

"Good morning," she said, handing me a piece of bread. I took it and thanked her. I was lucky to get breakfast today.

"Klaus?" my father asked. He still hadn't looked up from his paper.

"Yes?" I inquired, gulping down the bread.

"I need you to go pick up some more bread for tonight's dinner," he answered. He tore his eyes away from the article he was reading and searched for money to give me. When he found some, he held it out to me. I took it and walked out the door. I was greeted by jeers, but they weren't directed at me. They were directed at the street. I wondered what was- my blood ran cold. The Jews, I realized, remembering my parents' conversation from last night. I tried to see over other people's heads, but I was unsuccessful. I resorted to pushing through the crowd. Some people let out yelps as I thundered past them. I didn't care. When I reached the front of the crowd, I felt angrier than I ever did in my life.

The Jews were shuffling their feet with their heads turned to face the ground. Their clothes were in tatters, hanging loosely from their skeletal frames. They were covered in dirt. Some of them were brave enough to look at the crowd, to scan for people who could possibly help them. But they all looked the same: broken. Except for one.

This Jew was different. He held his head high despite the glares thrown his way. He walked with his back straight, as if mocking the Nazis who were watching him. But what really made him different was the way he ran. As soon as the Nazis took their eyes off of him, he took off. He was barreling towards me with a soldier on his heels.

I don't know exactly why I did it- I think it was my hate towards the _Fuhrer_- but I did it all the same. I stepped out of the way of the Jew and got into position as the Nazi came towards me. Once he was close enough, I punched him. I punched the Nazi, square on the nose. My blood sang as there was a huge cracking noise and blood dripping from his face. My knuckles stung, but I pulled my hand back and punched him again. And again. And again. I punched him as if he was Hitler. I punched him until I was hauled off of him. In addition to his bloody nose, the soldier had two black eyes and blood crusting on his cheek bones. I was satisfied.

The Nazis dragged me into the middle of my street and removed my shirt. I stood proud, like the Jew I had helped escape. Someone came up behind me and kicked the backs of my knees, making me kneel down on the ground.

I didn't even feel the whip. I heard it slap my bare skin, but didn't feel it. I just felt my stinging right knuckles. The same knuckles that had punched the Nazi soldier in the face. I grinned despite the sounds the whip was making when it hit my back, despite the blood I felt well from the whip's marks, despite everything.

I, Klaus Herrmann, had finally punched the _Fuhrer_ in the face, even though he looked like one of his nameless soldiers. And I was completely and wholly satisfied.

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**So, how did you think I did? First non-fanfic thing I uploaded on here. I thought it would be interesting to try to write something about WWII from a German's point of view, not a Jew's. I hope you guys liked this! I could turn this into a full length story, and I was going to do that, but I couldn't finish it in time for the deadline. **

**If you hated it, review! If you loved it, review! If you thought it needed a lot of work, review!**

**Until Next Time, **

**Kato**


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